


just wanna feel good (wanna feel special)

by bellawritess



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, KEEPING THE STREAK BABY, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, WHO AM I PART 2, YES it is required listening, based on special by simple creatures, because. you know. it's Me, fair warning there is no Actual Smut, friends with benefits dynamics, omg wait, technically not fwb but also kind of yes but no, this one does not really have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26522488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellawritess/pseuds/bellawritess
Summary: Anything you need.That’s the promise. Whispered, tossed jokingly aside, muttered before interviews — Ashton has promisedanything you needto Michael so many times he’s lost count.
Relationships: Michael Clifford/Ashton Irwin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	just wanna feel good (wanna feel special)

**Author's Note:**

> right. so i put special by simple creatures on a loop, felt far too many feelings about alex gaskarth singing the chorus, and then wrote this.
> 
> HELL of a shoutout to firstly [cam](http://haikucal.tumblr.com/) for being just so fucking wonderful and reading this and giving me HELPFUL FEEDBACK i seriously could not ask for more from you my dear and also to [maggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/expectopatronuz) who littered the doc with comments that give me life. and finally obligatory shoutout to my wonderful favorite people [ainslee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisonthefloor) and [helen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softirwin/pseuds/softirwin) who really just helped me figure out how to tag this BUT since i love them to death they get a shoutout for free
> 
> it may surprise you to learn that the title is from special by simple creatures

This is the first time Ashton has questioned the integrity of a promise he’s made. Wondered if, maybe, just this once, he can’t keep it.

_Anything you need_. That’s the promise. Whispered, tossed jokingly aside, muttered before interviews — Ashton has promised _anything you need_ to Michael so many times he’s lost count. Michael doesn’t take him up on it that often, and when he does it’s in small ways. With Michael, a small action goes a long way, and they work well like that, although sometimes Ashton wants to remind Michael that he has more to give; that Michael _can_ be selfish, take exactly what he needs, _anything_ , because Ashton wouldn’t promise it if he didn’t mean it.

That’s what he’d thought, anyway.

Behind Michael, the early morning darkness of 4 a.m. threatens to swallow everything up in it. Ashton immediately steps away from the threshold when he opens the door, and Michael steps past him mechanically. His hands are shaking.

“What’s going on?” Ashton asks tentatively. It’s hard to know when Michael needs to be left alone and when he needs to be pushed, prodded until the problem reveals itself in a fury. Usually Ashton can tell, but he needs another minute to assess.

“What’s going on?” Michael repeats dully, like he’s not sure himself. “I — I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Ashton says. “How can I help?”

Now Michael stares at Ashton. “You can’t,” he says suddenly, more like he’s talking to himself than Ashton. “I don’t need help.” He’s obviously lying, shifting on his feet, unable to stand still.

“Let me try,” Ashton asks, gentle as he can. Something about Michael seems wound up, and Ashton worries that if he presses too hard he’ll get hit by the shrapnel of the explosion, but if Michael needs to explode, then Ashton is willing to light the fuse.

Michael pulls his sleeves over his hands, curls them into fists. “I shouldn’t have come,” he mutters to himself, and turns around. Ashton puts a bracing hand on Michael’s shoulder.

“You can always come to me,” he says firmly. “I’m here for you. Anything you need, Michael. Just tell me what you need. Tell me what I can do.”

“No,” Michael says, steel in his voice. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“Michael,” Ashton says softly. “I mean it. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

“Don’t keep asking me,” Michael begs. “I don’t want to — take advantage of you, but I will. If you keep saying I can, then I will. Please let me leave. I shouldn’t have come, I really shouldn’t have, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

If Ashton were cleverer, he would think about Michael’s words for longer than the half-second it takes to process them, and maybe he’d think twice before answering. But as it is, Ashton’s whole focus has tunneled, and all he can think is: _anything you need._ Michael needs help, and Ashton can help somehow.

“Tell me what you need,” he repeats.

Michael shakes his head. “I don’t want to.”

“Michael. Look me in the eyes.” Still, Michael’s gaze is glued to the floor. Ashton taps the knuckle of his index finger under Michael’s chin, intending to gently nudge his head to meet Ashton’s eyes, but instead Michael jerks, and their eyes meet more by accident than anything. Ashton rests his palm against Michael’s cheek and Michael shudders, though from what, Ashton couldn’t possibly guess. “Anything,” Ashton tells him, determined. “Let me help you.”

Michael gives a shaky exhale, stretching his neck uncomfortably. “You’ll hate me.”

“I could never hate you.”

“Ashton, you will.”

“I promise you I won’t.”

“You don’t know. Please, please, Ashton, let me leave. I’m — I can’t. I should —”

“I’m not letting you leave in this state,” Ashton says. “Michael, please.”

It’s hard to know what, exactly, Ashton is asking for, but Michael closes his eyes like these words have dug under his skin and dislodged something there.

“Michael —” 

Michael moves quickly, clutching tightly to Ashton’s shirtfront and leaning in close, and Ashton doesn’t realize Michael’s about to kiss him until their lips meet. This is mostly instinct, so Ashton recovers from the initial shock easily enough; if Michael’s kissing him there must be a reason, and the least Ashton can do is kiss back.

Michael is so desperate. Ashton can practically taste it. He kisses messy and lost, similar to the way Michael sometimes is, and Ashton can feel Michael in it. They’ve never kissed before, but Ashton knows he’d never mistake this kiss for anyone else’s. But just as Ashton starts to settle into it, to open his mouth and let Michael in, Michael wrenches away with a choking sound.

“Ashton,” he says, somehow communicating a plea both for Ashton to stop and for him to continue. But it’s not up to Ashton, really. He swallows.

“It’ll help,” he says quietly.

Michael shakes his head, trembling violently. “Don’t, Ashton, I shouldn’t have —”

“Michael. Just tell me if it will help. Be honest.”

Michael bites down on his lip and squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes. It’ll help.”

And, well.

_Anything you need._

“Okay then,” Ashton says, tilting his forehead against Michael’s. “That’s okay with me.” 

Michael staggers for a moment. He stares at Ashton, and then something changes in his eyes, something resigned, and the space between them disappears.

This is never how Ashton wanted to do this with Michael, but Michael is immediately hungry, any reservations shed, and Ashton has to remind himself that this is for Michael, and Michael has to decide exactly how it goes. He follows Michael’s lead, parting his lips when Michael pries, tries not to free the noise building in the back of his throat, but then Michael moans, quietly like he’s not sure it’s allowed, and Ashton figures they’ve crossed the line.

They’re already here. Regret it or not, there’s no circling back.

(Jury’s still out on whether or not Ashton will regret this.)

Michael’s hands fumble at the hem of Ashton’s t-shirt, and his breath comes heavy against Ashton’s mouth when he gasps, “Can I,” fingertips grazing low on Ashton’s stomach, electricity arcing out from every place Michael touches.

Ashton nods; words are sticking in his throat from all of the things he really wants to say, wants to ask — _does it help because it’s this, or because it’s me? Is it just for now, or will you need this again? Will you come to me if you do?_ He can’t ask. Under no circumstance can he ask. So he says nothing, swallows down question marks that don’t go down easy, and in one swift motion pulls off his t-shirt. Michael’s hands are immediately wandering, skimming across Ashton’s chest as if mapping new terrain. Ashton can feel himself breathing too hard, thinks for sure he’s being too obvious, but he can attribute it to Michael, hopefully, who’s moved his lips to Ashton’s neck and has apparently abandoned the pretense that he doesn’t want to be doing this.

They make it back to Ashton’s room by some small miracle. Time compresses on itself, minutes extending for miles but somehow passing in seconds. Ashton feels dizzy, feels stretched in a million directions, trying to stay objective — to remember that this is for Michael, that no matter how much he wants it, this isn’t for Ashton, and he can’t let Michael know, because for all Ashton knows, Luke would do just as good right now for Michael, and Ashton just lives closer. It’s a favor. A favor. Helping out a friend. Ashton would do it for anyone, and Michael would accept it from anyone.

(Except that’s a lie — Ashton wouldn’t do this for _anyone_ , probably wouldn’t do it for Luke or Calum either, if they asked, because there has to be a line somewhere. There has to be. He just wants it so bad. It’s selfish, but Ashton is selfish.)

But eventually he slips up, hums, “God, you’re gorgeous,” without meaning to, enraptured by the way Michael’s eyes look under cover of darkness, and as soon as he says it he’s sure he’s broken the spell. That Michael will pull away, remember that this is _Ashton,_ his best friend and bandmate, that there are unspoken rules in place about avoiding precisely what they’re doing right now, and he’ll go.

Instead, Michael’s lips curve upward. “Really?” he breathes, and Ashton’s heart races against itself, trying to beat its own best time.

“Really,” he says quietly. They’re suspended in a moment somehow, in the midst of this absolute mess, and Ashton wonders if maybe he shouldn’t hold his tongue as much. “More than that. Stunning. Fucking artwork. Seriously, Michael.”

The smile across Michael’s face seems to be painted with relief, like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders, and he kisses Ashton again, intentionally rough. Ashton closes his eyes, wondering if there’s a way to tell Michael _you’re so hot, so good at this, fuck, please don’t stop_ , without sounding like they’re words that have been assembling under his tongue for years. Tries to weigh the benefit of telling them to Michael and seeing him smile like that again against what it says about Ashton, to admit it.

(It doesn’t end up mattering. Michael says it first, a hoarse confession while Ashton’s leaving marks across his collarbone, and Ashton inhales and echoes the words and decides not to overthink this as much as he is. Michael _does_ smile again, teeth dragging against his bottom lip. Ashton starts wondering if his heart is still beating in his chest, fluttering quickly enough that it just feels like one steady thrum, or if it’s stopped altogether.)

* * *

Ashton thinks he should be tired, after. It’s coming up on five in the morning, and soon the birds are going to start waking up, and Ashton hasn’t been up this late in a long time. 

But he doesn’t feel tired, or anything, really. In fact, he feels a little bit empty.

For several minutes they sit back against the pillows of Ashton’s bed, Michael leaning into Ashton’s side and Ashton’s arm around his shoulders, and there’s silence. The room is too big for the quiet; it twists on itself, trying to fill the space, to crowd into every corner and mute the echoes, but Ashton still hears Michael’s heavy breathing, trying to catch his own breath. It’s not quiet enough to pretend they’re not here, which seems to be what Michael wants.

Michael’s eyes have been closed, but when Ashton presses a soft kiss to his shoulder he opens them, gazing out at a spot over Ashton’s doorframe. He gives a shuddering exhale. Ashton knows that this is the end. Michael’s not staying. Whatever this is, if it even had a beginning, it has to end here. It can’t leave Ashton’s house, probably shouldn’t even leave his room, and it absolutely can’t carry on past five in the morning.

“Do you feel better?” he murmurs, because it’s not fair to make Michael break the silence. Michael might not have the strength, but Ashton can’t trap him in it, much as he’d like to.

Michael breathes out again. “Yes,” he whispers miserably, although he doesn’t look like it. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

And Ashton wants to stop him, to grab his arm and stall him and beg him to stay, promise that he doesn’t _need_ to be sorry, that it’s okay with Ashton, that he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

But Michael needs to leave, for himself. So Ashton doesn’t move, and just watches Michael pull his clothes back on and retreat from Ashton’s room. He lingers a moment at the doorway, turns around, stares at Ashton. There’s something uncertain in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Ashton says gently. “You can go.”

Michael blinks. His shoulders slump, and he nods once, and then he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> so, yeah. that's cool. i am on tumblr [@clumsyclifford](http://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/) so you can come say hey if you want and if you REALLY feel like being nice i accept affection in the form of comments and. there you go that's all! thanks for stopping by


End file.
